The day I went to look for a suit I became very angry, very quickly. I had been in the town fifteen minutes at a push when I began to look for an entryway or even a fucking open window to heave my guts out.

They were everywhere.

The streak haired sons of council estate thrustings. The scar faced, wife-beating human debris of an Atlantis that sank in excreta. I was troubled by the gangs of snarling bastards who nudged each other at my bearded approach and barred the footpath. I was sickened by the tracksuited, gum-chewing whores that raised saplings of this glue-bag Earth on potato chips and fear.

Further up the canal there loomed Emos staring into the shopping trolley and piss blackness and comparing cigarette burns or pink and black armbands. I don’t know what they do, I only suppose I am right. Faux misery is the most dangerous sort. When the hammer comes down for real the practitioner is fucked. The need for a drink overwhelmed me and I found a shit-smelling bar with a front that appeared to gag through windows at its surroundings.

Nearly empty save for two old men who had forgotten how to speak, I found a seat at the window to keep an eye on my enemies. Pounding whiskey after whiskey I watched the shell suits come by to heckle the Emos and strangely felt no empathy for them. I was ashamed of myself for a moment. Too many times I had been the recipient of their malice but I found a hateful chuckle rising and switched to pints.

No sense in heartburn through misplaced gentility.

The Emos hung their heads, took it in their mind’s ass and realised ‘My Chemical Romance’ were not the last word in misery after all. Daydreams of flamethrowers to settle both groups caused a faint stirring in my stinking jeans. The suit showed up and floated out of my head again and I wondered what new chapter this shit tank world would skip to.

I have no delusions of my own superiority – I am far beneath most. It’s just that I worry about the state of the world’s soul. We are on one hand falling into a dystopian and violently nightmarish sinkhole populated by night hunting glass-packs and the screaming, bleeding unwary, and a reality TV fuelled, musically devoid banality festival on the cigarette burned other.

The time will come home for old drunks like me who will not align with either to run to the mountains where we will slip down only at night, or to build a quiet stronghold of thug skulls and a moat of Emo tears